Free First Strike by Jeremy Rumfitt Page B

solid investigative work, been fast-tracked through the ranks. Frank Willowby was a very competent agent. Or unusually well informed.
    “This is really silly,” thought Ambrose. “If Willowby had bought the ranch with illicit funds, he wouldn’t have told me about it, would he? Or would he?”
    Next morning Willowby and Ambrose had breakfast together on the terrace by the pool.
    “Ben,” said Willowby. “There’s some things we need to discuss, concerning you and this guy Bowman.”
    “Bowman? What about Bowman?”
    “He was staying here at the hotel just recently. You wired the Embassy for funds, so you could pay his room bill. Am I right?”
    “Bowman’s a friend of mine. Did some odd jobs for me on the Costa del Sol.”
    “And you used Uncle Sam’s bucks to pay his hotel bill? Do you think that’s an appropriate use of company funds?”
    Ambrose began to sweat. He didn’t answer right away. Then he said,
    “I’m sorry Sir... I shouldn’t have but...”
    Willowby silenced him with a gesture.
    “Ben it’s OK, really it is. So you paid your buddy’s bill with company funds. Big deal. I’ve done the same thing myself, many a time.”
    “You have?”
    Ambrose was dumbstruck.
    “Sure I have. DEA’s awash with funds. Nobody keeps track. I found that out years ago.”  Willowby was grinning. “How d’you think I paid for the ranch?”
    “The ranch?”
    “Only kidding, Ben. Only kidding. Don’t look so shocked. Besides, the ranch cost millions. Can’t get sums like that out of petty cash.”
    Ambrose couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.
    “Anyway, Ben, your friend Bowman, where is he now?”
    “Gone back to England to get some a rest. He’s rented a cottage some place in the country. I don’t have an address, just his email.”
    “Too bad. I’d really like to meet him. He sounds like an impressive guy.”
    Willowby reached into his pocket and pulled out a diamond encrusted, Patek Philippe chronometer in 18ct gold.
    “Here, Ben. I have a little something for you.”
    “Gee, sir,” said Ambrose. “What’s this?”
    He was beaming. Back in the ghetto people killed for watches like this.
    “But, sir…really…I can’t…it wouldn’t be….”
    “Forget it Ben. You did good work. You deserve it. My people are very grateful.”
    “Your people? Sir?”
    “I’ll explain it to you later, Ben. Meantime let’s take a walk, I’d like to see the Medina while I’m here, see if there’s anything you’d like. I hear they do a great line in gold jewellery.”
     
    ***
     

14
     
     
    Secretary of Defence Karl Herzfeld gazed across the vast open courtyard at the gaping hole on the far side of the wounded building where Al Qaeda had devastated on wing of the Pentagon on 9/11.
    “Did you see this morning’s New York Times, Arthur? One thousand anti-war protesters on the streets of Manhattan. Can you believe that? Just a few blocks from Ground Zero. What do those lily-livered sons of bitches want? More of the same? What does it take to convince these people? Another three thousand dead and wounded?”
    He went to the drinks cabinet and helped himself to a chilled Bud.
    “The press coverage we’re getting is outrageous. The article by that English bitch was a complete fucking disaster. She should be taught a lesson. What the hell is Santos up to, schmoozing with all these Goddamn peaceniks?”
    Colonel Preston fingered the scar on his right cheek.
    “Goddamn liberals deserve everything they get. Nuking’s too good for the bastards.”
    “Fact is we’re losing momentum, Colonel. Protest is on the rise, a thousand this week, twenty thousand next. We need to get this war started. Goddamn CIA still can’t come up with the fucking goods.”
    “The Brits have gotten hold of something new,” Preston beamed. “Could be just the evidence we need. They have a source who claims Iraq can launch a chemical attack within forty-five minutes of Saddam’s order.”
    Herzfeld turned to face into